Edna Ferber Quotes
Most popular Edna Ferber Quotes
Here in Texas maybe we've got into the habit of confusing bigness with greatness.
In order to write really well and convincingly one must be somewhat poisoned by emotion.
Being an old maid is like death by drowning, a really delightful sensation after you cease to struggle.
Life cannot defeat a writer who is in love with writing - for life itself is a writer's love until death.
The bully must be met with instant repulse or he multiplies his own violence. A placated bully is a hand-fed bully.
Opinion! If every one had so little tact as to give their true opinion when it was asked this would be a miserable world.
Tulsa, "oil capital of the world," as it calls itself, is a tough, get-rich-quick heady town about as sensitive as corduroy.
Wasn't marriage, like life, unstimulating and unprofitable and somewhat empty when too well ordered and protected and guarded?
The astronomers tell us that other planets are gifted with two—four—even nine lavish moons. Imagine the romantic possibilities of nine moons.
Living in the past is a dull and lonely business; and looking back, if persisted in, strains the neck-muscles, causes you to bump into people not going your way.
A stricken tree, a living thing, so beautiful, so dignified, so admirable in its potential longevity, is, next to man, perhaps the most touching of wounded objects.
The feminine in the man is the sugar in the whiskey. The masculine in the woman is the yeast in the bread. Without these ingredients the result is flat, without tang or flavor.
Life really can't utterly defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer's lover until death; fascinating, cruel, lavish, warm, cold, treacherous, constant.
Your idea of bliss is to wake up on a Monday morning knowing you haven't a single engagement for the entire week. You are cradled in a white paper cocoon tied up with typewriter ribbon.
Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth. Writing may be interesting, absorbing, exhilarating, racking, relieving. But amusing? Never!
Awake and asleep the novel is with you, dogging your footsteps. Strange formless bits of material float out from the ether about you and attach themselves to the main body of the story as though they had hung suspended in air for years, waiting.
America—rather, the United States—seems to me to be the Jew among the nations. It is resourceful, adaptable, maligned, envied, feared, imposed upon. It is warmhearted, overfriendly; quick-witted, lavish, colorful; given to extravagant speech and gestures.
Wasn't marriage, like life, unstimulating and unprofitable and somewhat empty when too well-ordered and protected and guarded. Wasn't it finer, more splendid, more nourishing, when it was, like life itself, a mixture of the sordid and the magnificent; of mud and stars; of earth and flowers; of love and hate and laughter and tears and ugliness and beauty and hurt?